


tongue in cheek

by simplyclockwork



Series: oh captain, my captain [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Captain John Watson, Fingering, Frottage, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, PWP, Pleading, Rimming, Sherlock is a Brat, Shower Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Another installment of theoh captain, my captainseries, this time from Captain John Watson's POV.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: oh captain, my captain [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1740022
Comments: 40
Kudos: 227





	tongue in cheek

“You need a shower.”

Sherlock is a boneless puddle on the bed, rubbing his nose against John’s armpit when the soldier wakes. Prying his eyes open, John squints, winces, and peers at the man curled up against his side. 

“Do I?” Rolling onto his back, blinking sleep from his eyes, John shoots a surprised glance at the dark of evening falling outside the bedroom window. “I can’t remember the last time I spent an entire day in bed.” He shifts over to lock his lips on Sherlock’s neck, sucking hard until a bruise forms and the other man writhes, twisting to grind slowly against the hard muscle of John’s thigh. “You’re a bad influence,” John murmurs, swiping his tongue over the darkening mark. 

“Are you complaining, Captain Watson?” Sherlock hums, arching his back to press a slowly hardening cock against his leg. 

“God, no.” John drags a hand through sweat-tangled curls, running his palm over sharp shoulder blades, a trim waist and a curving, plush arse. The last makes him groan, the caress turning into a hard grab that has Sherlock panting out a stuttering breath. “Not when you’re such a pretty little distraction," John murmurs, rolling to pin Sherlock with his hips, thrusting along the dip of his groin. “Still think I need a shower?”

"Yes." Tilting his head, Sherlock looks him dead in the eye. “You stink.”

John laughs, pressing his grinning mouth against Sherlock’s stomach as he shifts down his body. He mouths over the jut of a hip, glancing upward to see Sherlock watching him. “Oh, you’re going to give me so much trouble with that mouth of yours, aren’t you?”

One eyebrow cocked, Sherlock smirks and doesn’t respond. Watching him, John lips at warm skin before flicking his tongue into the dip of Sherlock’s belly button, making him jerk and gasp. To his shock, fingers grip his hair and wrench his head back up, Sherlock bending to look him in the face. 

“Shower.” 

Staring back at him, expression flat and hard, John leans forward, grips Sherlock’s jaw, and whispers, “Brat.”

Before Sherlock can reply, he grabs him around the waist. He hauls him out of bed, dragging him toward a door connected to the bedroom he assumes is the bathroom. When he flicks on the light and proves his guess correct, John flashes a wolfish smile at the man caught in his grip. Setting Sherlock on his feet in the tub, John crowds in after him. The other man is taller, but John is stronger. His body is built from compact muscle and hardened bone, and he backs Sherlock up against the wall with his hands on bony hips.

“Shame no one ever taught you any manners,” he comments, sliding a hand up to tangle in Sherlock’s hair, using the grip to tug his head down. “Ah, well. Better late than never.” 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, slowly lifting his hands as if to place them on John’s shoulders. But John catches him by the wrists and pins them over his head with one hand, pressing them to the tiled wall. 

“Nope, none of that,” he chastises, tilting his hips forward to trap Sherlock’s hardening cock against his stomach. Looking down with a smug grin, John shakes his head in wonder. “You really are insatiable, aren’t you?” 

Wriggling, failing to slip his hands free, Sherlock goes limp. He demonstrates a dramatic pout. The fullness of Cupid’s Bow lips teases John with ideas of face-fucking and other tantalizing possibilities involving nothing more than Sherlock’s plush mouth. 

“Johnnn,” Sherlock draws the name out in a low whine. The sound of it, in that honeyed, baritone voice, makes the soldier shiver. Tilting his head, John leans toward the faucet, fiddling one-handed with the taps as he presses a sturdy thigh between Sherlock’s legs.

“It’s _Captain Watson_ to you, brat.” 

Sherlock’s lips press together, a thin white line broken quickly by a yelp when John turns on the water, an icy spray streaming down on them until he adjusts the temperature. Watching him with rapidly darkening eyes, hands still pinned over his head, Sherlock’s mouth opens. His lips part eagerly when John slides an arm around his waist, pulling Sherlock down for a slow brush of mouths and tongues. Sherlock is pliant and yearning, rocking his hips forward to buck into John’s stomach. 

"Yes, Captain Watson," Sherlock gasps, wanton, aching.

“Mm, much better." John nibbles over the sharp angle of Sherlock’s jaw. “Good little soldiers listen to their captains, don’t they?”

Sherlock is nodding desperately, soaking hair plastered to his forehead, eyes fixed on John’s mouth when John leans back to look him in the face. Holding eye contact, John fumbles at the bottles of product on a ledge next to Sherlock’s head, using his thumb to flip the cap on a tube of body wash. The scent is a mixture of spice and citrus, foaming up into a wash of suds in his hands. John runs his hands over Sherlock’s still-raised arms, now held against the wall of his own volition. His fingers trace over lean muscle and the rise of shoulders, pausing to flick each pink nipple with his tongue before dragging his soapy thumbs over them.

Gasping at the alternating sensation of John’s mouth and slippery hands, Sherlock bucks forward again with a breathless groan, eyes hooded as he watches John paint suds down his chest, over his stomach and the curves of his hips. When John drops to his knees, he lets out a soft whimper, the soldier caressing the long muscles of Sherlock’s thighs. John traces kneecaps and slides his hands down calves and ankles, brushing fingers over Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock’s breathing stutters and John works his way back up, hands curving around endless legs.

He cups the bottom of Sherlock’s buttock, a cheek cradled in each of his palms, massaging the plush flesh and working fingers into the tense muscle. There is a bite mark there, just between the join of thigh to cheek, and Sherlock sighs at the press of faint pressure against the bruise. 

“Sherlock...” John tilts his head back to watch Sherlock hang his head, panting slowly down at John, his cock standing proud against his belly. “You’re stunning. God, I could touch you like this for _hours.”_

Sherlock’s response is a high, thready groan. When John's fingers flex, the sound catches in his throat, John squeezing Sherlock's arse cheeks together before pulling them apart, slowly stretching abused muscles.

Rising again, John tilts forward and draws a slow, sloppy tongue over the soft skin beneath Sherlock’s ear, breathing, “Turn around, gorgeous.” Sherlock rushes to comply, whirling so fast he nearly slips, John grabbing him by the hips to keep him upright. Once he settles, John sighs against his neck, scraping teeth over wet flesh. “Hands against the wall," he orders. "Spread your legs.”

Moaning, Sherlock does as told. He looks over his shoulder, watching John lather suds over his shoulders and spine, the dip of his lower back, returning to his rear. John’s hands linger on the curve of his arse, delving slowly between Sherlock’s cheeks to pass briefly over his still loosened hole. 

John wraps an arm around his waist, and Sherlock sucks in a breath, letting John tilt him into the spray, the water washing him clean. Suds swirling at their feet, Sherlock reaches for the body wash, rubbing it between his hands and skating them over John’s chest. His eyes are half-closed and dark, nearly overtaken by his dilated pupils. Lips parted, the tip of his tongue peeking out, he washes John’s arms, shoulders, chest and the v-lines leading down to his sturdy legs. 

John lets his head fall back, hands settled loosely on Sherlock’s waist. His eyes slide shut, and he focuses on the feeling of long, clever fingers moving over his skin. Sherlock’s fingertips brush his cock, making it twitch with faint interest, only half-hard as John hums at the oversensitive touch. Moving on, Sherlock worships John’s thighs and calves, tonguing over the hard muscles before washing away the leavings of his saliva. 

When he makes his way back up John’s body, drawing him into the spray with one hand moving toward John’s stirring cock, the soldier stops him. Catching Sherlock's wrists again, John whirls him over the wet bottom of the tub to press him face-first against the wall. 

“None of that,” he whispers. John nips at the lobe of an ear, the side of Sherlock's neck, the dip of a shoulder. Sherlock whines, trembling in the cooling water as John slides down to his knees, hands tracing a path, teeth dragging over Sherlock’s spine. 

Without warning, he bites down hard on the rise of one arse cheek, and Sherlock cries out in surprise, the sound easing into a low moan as John works his way to the cleft with his tongue. Parting Sherlock’s cheeks, his hot breath the only precursor for his plan of attack, Sherlock bucks against the wall at the feeling of John’s tongue breaching his hole. Still slick and open, John groans, working his fingers against the plush flesh under his hands, twisting his tongue around the sensitive muscle of Sherlock’s opening.

“Oh, god,” he sighs, Sherlock trembling under his hands. “You taste like me.” John groans again, pushing his tongue past only the slightest resistance, into heat and the musky tang of his own cum and Sherlock’s unique flavour. He slips deeper, pressing his nose into the cleft of Sherlock’s buttock, lips puckering, sucking lightly at the sensitive flesh. 

Sherlock’s back arches, body tense as a tightly-strung bow, hips jerking forward, seeking friction from the shower's slick wall. The water hammering down on them is closer to lukewarm than hot, sluicing down their bodies and ignored by both when John flicks his tongue against Sherlock’s rim. 

With the other man sighing and panting above him, John grips Sherlock’s hips to keep him still. The hold turns the thrusts into aborted little twitches, halting Sherlock's relief-seeking as his cock leaks precome against his stomach.

John uses his lips and tongue to bring Sherlock to a shuddering mess. Massaging his fingers hard against jutting hip bones, the soldier hums with pleasure at their mingled taste.

“Captain...” Sherlock rolls his forehead against the tiles, face tight and tense with need. “Captain Watson, _John,_ ah, I need—I need _more!"_

John shakes his head with a slow smirk, working his teeth against the inside of Sherlock’s thigh. “Not yet, baby,” he soothes, drawing his nails down the back of Sherlock’s legs and making him choke back something close to a sob. “I told you, you need to learn some manners.”

 _“Please,”_ Sherlock rasps, pleading, pressing back into John’s hands as they massage his glutes. “Please, please, pretty please, oh, John, _please.”_

His smirk widening, John tilts forward to plunge his tongue into Sherlock’s hole again without warning. Sherlock's legs shake, and he cries out in surprise. Thrusting his tongue in a slow, rhythmic pattern, John grips Sherlock’s legs to keep them steady. Sherlock’s hands are scrabbling at the slick tiles, looking for purchase, trying to keep himself upright. John leans forward until Sherlock’s hips are flush with the wall, leaving no room for him to thrust or relieve his aching erection. He holds him in place as his tongue breaches him over and over, making sure to flick the tip upward with every retraction. 

When Sherlock begins to shudder and squirm, babbling a string of nonsense above him, John leans back. As Sherlock gasps for air, John sticks a finger in his own mouth, sucks hard, then pops it out with a slurp and works it into Sherlock. With his hole gaping and open for him, John slides the digit inside with ease, curling until Sherlock’s entire body jerks with the sensation of John’s fingertip gliding over his prostate. 

“Fuck, fuck, oh, _fuck!”_ Sherlock blathers, hips shifting side-to-side, desperate for friction on his cock. “John, fuck, John, John…” John chuckles, twisting the finger, ducking his head to slide his tongue in alongside. Voicing a high-pitched keen, Sherlock’s legs buckle. Before he can fall, John loops his arms around the other man’s waist, pulling him down into his lap as he settles on the edge of the tub. 

The water has gone cold. Shivering with chill and arousal, skin flushed despite the goosebumps rising on his flesh, Sherlock wiggles in John’s lap until John’s now-hard cock slips between his wet cheeks, rubbing over his quivering hole. They both groan, the obscene sound muffled by water striking the bottom of the basin. Bracing his hands on the rim of the tub, John closes his eyes as Sherlock rocks himself slowly against John’s erection. Head tilting back against John's shoulder, he pants little, broken sighs. Cheek-to-cheek, Sherlock plants his feet against the opposite side of the tub to keep himself in place, grinding against John until they are both gasping with the sensation. 

John’s cock slips, catching against Sherlock’s thigh before sliding free, twitching out between Sherlock’s parted legs. The head drags against Sherlock’s bollocks, and they sigh as Sherlock wraps his long, shaking hands around their shafts, stroking slowly. The sensation of his warm hand and the chill water make John’s breath catch, rolling his hips up and shifting Sherlock on his lap. With the leaking head of his cock sliding up the silky underside of Sherlock’s, the water washing away dribbles of precome, John curses and bites down hard on Sherlock’s shoulder. 

Shuddering in response, Sherlock rises, moving to straddle John. Their cocks drag together in a rub of friction that has John grabbing hard at Sherlock’s arms, hauling him closer. Long limbs curled around John, Sherlock lets the soldier brace them against the edge of the tub, frotting into one another with needy gasps and clutching fingers. 

Their pace settles into something sloppy, hips shifting together until Sherlock is digging his nails into John’s back, John growling against his neck. Legs planted, he grabs Sherlock’s arse and slides one hand into the cleft, plunging two fingers into Sherlock’s open hole. Sherlock spasms, head jerking back as he comes with a shuddering sigh, spattering a light trickle of semen over John’s swelling cock.

“Oh, hell, look at you, _look at you,”_ John groans, his voice going rough and furious with his own oncoming climax. “God, Sherlock, yes, yes,” he rubs his hand through Sherlock’s release, slicking it over their cocks as he takes over, Sherlock’s hand going slack and falling away. Rutting against Sherlock’s softening erection, John grits his teeth and drops his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder with his fingers still deep inside the other man, feeling Sherlock's comedown tremours, the shaking muscles flexing around the digits. 

When he comes, there’s almost nothing left, John’s body worn down and depleted by continued worship of the man panting against his neck. Baring his teeth, John trembles through the release, both of them slipping into the bottom of the tub in a tangled heap. Still gasping, groaning, clutching Sherlock tight to his chest, John reaches out and turns off the taps before sagging against the wet porcelain. Gathering Sherlock up in his arms, John slips them out of the shower, stumbling on shaky legs back into the bedroom, dripping water onto the floor.

They tumble onto the bed in a soggy mess. Huffing in John's ear, Sherlock mutters, “You’re getting the sheets wet.” 

“Don’t care,” John retorts. Eyes closed, he presses his face into the pillows, body blessedly spent. 

Sherlock huffs again, nuzzling against John’s neck and whining his half-hearted complaints. “Get up.”

“Mmm, make me.” John rolls onto his side, drawing the other man into him, all long limbs and awkward angles and a far plusher backside than someone so tall and thin has any right to own. Sherlock is slender and bony, but John works himself into a comfortable tangle of arms and legs. Sherlock’s sour protests soften into pleased hums once they’re twisted together. “Yeah, I didn’t think so,” John quips, mouthing at the other man’s neck with lips gone numb with fatigue. 

Sherlock sighs, pressing his face into John’s shoulder. Grinning, John nudges him with his knee and laughs at the weak swat Sherlock aims at his backside.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I have _no shame_ with that title.


End file.
